Nice to hear from you Sue.

Well done

Cheers to thee,
Sue Stevenson

I once read Ayn Rand’s ‘The Fountainhead’ (in an effort to understand what people found so compelling about her) and was disturbed by its awful single-mindedness but couldn’t shake it for weeks.

Over the last few years, I’ve find myself reading nothing but writing that is challenging to the point of exhaustion – thick, sprawling novels that almost function as an encyclopedia on obscure pop culture references, with stories that jump between different voices and forms of narration (normally mid-sentence). I’ve already thrown Gravity’s Rainbow across the office countless times, frustrated that I’ve spent an hour reading (and subsequently re-reading) a few pages with still absolutely no idea who is speaking, or knowing exactly what is happening. Needless to say, when friends ask what the novel is about, I’m either too tired to explain, or hating myself for not doing it justice.

However, it only seems to be a matter of time before I pick up the tattered novel, dust it off, and promise to give it a ‘second chance’. And generally I’m rewarded with something amazing – uncovering a masterfully ‘concealed’ allusion, or even realising the sheer hilarity of a chapter in a post-WWII story narrated by a light bulb.

I guess this is also why ultimately I prefer and enjoy these complex texts, because they constantly challenge and often subvert my expectations and position as a reader.

But it would be nice not to have to read Joyce purely as a ‘secondary text’.

Interesting that initial resistance. I LOATHED Crime & Punishment the first time I read it at high school. I resisted it every page. I still remember finally finishing it and wondering, what was that? and turning back to the first page… and I was hooked. Since then I’ve probably read it 20 times, each time finding something new in it. My most recent traumatic read was Bolano’s 2666. Brilliant, beautiful and cost me a fortnight’s insomnia. Sometimes I’m not up to that kind of investment. Sometimes I do nothing but reread favourite children’s books… But that axe-breaking-ice thing is also what for me constitutes a great book.

The book that rearranged me was Christina Stead’s “The Man Who Loved Children”. I read it for year 12 Eng Lit, when I was 17, and interestingly the first time through (over summer, before school began) I HATED it. ABHORED. It was too hard and I didn’t get it. To my lasting gratitude, I had a teacher who loved the book and taught it brilliantly- so brilliantly that I could see that the reason I’d hated it so much was because it made me feel so uncomfortable. It challenged and it threatened me, it scared me, it dared. It was a life-changing lesson to learn as a reader and I am grateful for it… I think you have articulated that perfectly here.

Maybe I should give Austerlitz another go….